


break of day

by annundriel



Series: let us melt, and make no noise [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Dorian returns to Skyhold and the Bull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	break of day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dinojay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinojay/gifts), [Iambic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/gifts).



> Sequel to [like gold to airy thinness beat](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4027624).

The light creeping through the curtains when Dorian wakes up is cool and gray. It reminds him of the Hissing Wastes, of nights spent cradled by dunes of sand and this new thing with the Bull. It’s different than the light in Minrathous, the light on the road. He’d wondered if it was simply a time of day he doesn’t normally see, knows that isn’t the case. He had plenty of restless nights, waking from dreams of large hands and clever mouth and warm bed to…cool sheets or a hard bedroll, no one there but himself.

He’d had offers, and turned them all down. He and the Bull hadn’t discussed anything really, and Dorian hadn’t been entirely sure how he’d feel once they were separated for a while.

It had turned out to be surprisingly difficult. He’d missed the Bull, and missed him acutely, down to his bones. The surprise he’d felt—in the middle of the day on some dusty road—had staggered him. And so his tent, his room, had stayed private, his alone, and everything else he’d poured into the letters back, letters—he realizes now—home.

 _Home_ , he thinks. Where there is decent food and his preferred rink, where his friends reside. Where the Bull…

 _Bull_.

The Bull’s fingers trail at his hip, back and forth and back, slow. Firm enough not to tickle, gentle enough not to wake him. They’re rough with callouses and perfectly warm, and Dorian, in his time away, forgot just how wide they were. How big the Bull’s hands, how broad his chest, his shoulders. Time had done the same thing to Bull in his memory as it did to stone in the world, worn him down, made him smaller. Until he’d been standing there on Skyhold’s steps, living and breathing and _real_ , present, finally, in more than words and fantasies. So much larger than Dorian’s mind could retain.

He turns into the heat—the blessed heat—of the Bull now, fingertips skating over skin. He stretches and turns and thanks the Maker and Andraste for this bed, this glorious bed, and the Bull within it, propped up on his hand, watching Dorian.

“I’d scold you for staring,” Dorian says, voice sleep-rough, “but even in the dark I _am_ the most interesting thing.”

The Bull chuckles, the sound rolling out of him, washing over Dorian. His fingers brush low against Dorian’s belly. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you, kadan. Can you blame me?”

In his chest, Dorian’s heart leaps. Ridiculous, after so long, for his body to react so quickly, so distinctly to one word, two syllables. And yet here he is.

“Besides,” the Bull continues, his fingers traversing lower to brush the base of Dorian’s cock, “you’ve made some changes.” He leans close to nose at Dorian’s cheek. “I’m just familiarizing myself with them.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” His voice comes out strained, and he shifts into the Bull’s touch. Turns his head, mouth seeking. “Then by all means, carry on.”

Kissing the Bull, being kissed by the Bull…It’s never the same experience twice. Sometimes slow and deep, sometimes hard and fast. Sometimes teasing. Some overwhelming. The Bull kisses him, and Dorian is known, taken apart and put back together.

Body waking up more and more to the Bull’s ministrations, Dorian presses into him. Against his thigh, he can feel the Bull’s cock, quiescent now, but stirring. Dorian aches for it, and squirms against the sheets, turning away from the Bull’s mouth with a gasp when those questing fingers reach their destination.

“I was worried—heh.” Hips shift into touch. “I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

“Have you met me?” The Bull’s fingers circle the head of Dorian’s cock, slipping over the piercing. Dorian shivers, pushing at the sheets with his feet, kicking them off. “Mmm, besides,” the Bull says, “it’s you.”

 _Of course I like it_. Dorian can hear the words unspoken. Doesn’t need them said out loud to know…to know…

“Maker, you’re distracting,” he says, batting at the Bull’s hand, now exposed. He doesn’t want _this_ ; he wants—

The Bull’s hand wraps around his hardening cock. “No offense, Dorian, but I really don’t think you have anything better to do right now.”

He’s not wrong, but he also isn’t entirely right. There are plenty of things Dorian could be doing right now. Plenty of things the Bull himself might classify as better. He could have his mouth around the Bull, those large hands in his hair as the Bull fucks his face. He could be on his hands and knees, the Bull hard against his ass, cock slipping between his cheeks. He could be—

“I could be riding you.”

The Bull pauses, fingers just the right amount of tight. His breath is held. Against him, the Bull’s cock hardens.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Bull? Like to see me on top of you?” He’d thought about it more than once in his time away, about the Bull’s fingers stretching him, the burn in his thighs on either side of the Bull’s hips. The particular fullness of his cock. He’d written the Bull about trying to replicate that feeling; it had been impossible.

He aches for it now.

The Bull strokes him, fingers playing over the piercing once more before they uncurl, his hand moving upward.

Dorian sighs and shudders, reveling in the touch of another, the touch of _this_ other. Even after all this time, he still knows Dorian, still knows how and when and where to press, to stroke, to finger.

Thumbing at one of Dorian’s nipples, tugging at the ring of gold there, the Bull smiles down at him in the half-light. “If you think you can handle it.”

The words are teasing, but the tone is soft, concerned. Dorian warms from the inside out. And then scoffs. “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” he asks, reaching for the Bull’s cock and giving it a stroke, awkward angle be damned. “Of course I can, amatus.”

The Bull lets out a breath, hips nudging forward. “Of course you can. What was I thinking.”

Dorian grins and releases him. Pushes up on his elbows to kiss the Bull firm on the mouth. “Then roll over,” he says. “I’ll remind you.”

“I have no doubt about that.” The Bull shifts, and Dorian shifts with him, moving until he’s astride one of the Bull’s big thighs. It gives him a good view, the perfect view; the Bull leaned back against the pillows and headboard, the steady rise and fall of his great chest, the points of his nipples. The curving thickness of his cock. Dorian’s mouth waters, and he licks his lips, reaches down to give himself a stroke.

He can only imagine what it looks like to the Bull, what _he_ looks like. Good, he knows. He’s sure. Dark hair falling over his shoulder, piercings glinting in the early morning light…Oh, the changes he’s made are for him, to be sure, but he’s well aware of how he looks, and how much the Bull likes it. The way the Bull’s eye had glazed over when each piece of jewelry had been revealed was telling, and despite the Bull’s training, his history, Dorian could—at least here—read him like a book.

“Hey now,” the Bull says, hand extended. For a moment, Dorian thinks he’s going to stop him, wrap those fingers around his wrist. Instead, the Bull brushes the back of his fingers against the line of his cock above Dorian’s grip. Brushes up and against the piercing, sending a thrill straight to Dorian’s core. Dorian groans, grinds down against the Bull’s thigh. “That wasn’t the cock I thought you’d be playing with.”

Dorian laughs, hitching his hips to push into the Bull’s touch. “You’ll get your turn.”

The Bull hums, a low sound Dorian can almost feel, and studies him a moment before he reaches out to the nightstand to retrieve the bottle of oil kept there. Later, when he unpacks, he’ll give the Bull the oil he’d found in Minrathous, the one he’d told him about in his letter that had made everything feel _more_. He looks forward to that particular gifting, imagining the expression on the Bull’s face the first time he feels Dorian’s hand on his cock with that particular aid. The Bull, he thinks, will be very pleased.

“It’d be nice if it was sooner rather than later,” the Bull says, opening the bottle and anointing his fingers. They shine in the dim light, and Dorian shivers, body singing with anticipation. This time when the Bull touches him, it’s firm, the fingers still slightly too cool against the head of his cock, his overheated skin. Dorian sighs and shifts, lets go of his cock to move closer, hips lifting into the Bull’s touch. With a laugh, the Bull’s hand wraps around him. “This works, too.”

“For now.” Dorian takes the bottle from him, tipping the opening over his fingers. The oil is cool and slick, and Dorian heats it there on his skin before lifting up, lifting into the Bull’s grasp, and reaching behind him.

The Bull’s fingers twitch around him, and his breath catches, a soft sound that makes Dorian grin. A grin that drops at the touch of his wet fingers against his ass, teasing at his hole. Biting his lip, he closes his eyes with a sigh, circles there against the hot skin.

“Dorian,” the Bull says, voice hushed. There’s awe there, infused into the syllables Dorian’s known all his life, changing the word—his name—into something new, something different. They’re good for each other, he knows now, and he’s grateful to the alignment of the spheres that brought them—brought all of them—together.

“Yes?” he asks, the word shuddering out of him on an exhale as he presses a finger inward. The angle isn’t quite right, and he shifts, pushing against the Bull’s palm. He could ask the Bull to do it, and want judders through him at the thought of those thick fingers opening him up, but he needs this. Needs to see the Bull looking up at him like that, to feel the Bull’s hands on his cock and his thigh, his hip. To keep his head before he loses his mind.

“You’re—” The Bull shakes his head, blinking at Dorian. He’s glad of the morning light now, the cover it affords; the Bull can’t see the flush suffusing Dorian’s cheeks, won’t be able to read the layers of desperation and gratitude and _relief_ at being here, at being home, he knows are in his eyes. The Bull strokes him, face unreadable, and shakes his head.

Dorian’s finger presses in, deeper, oil easing the way. Another joins it, and he shudders. “Pretty special, I know.”

“Something else,” the Bull says, and then his hand is gone from Dorian’s cock. Dorian would complain, except both hands—both large hands—bracket his hips, and the Bull is tugging at him, pulling him close. “Come here.”

He tries, but with his hand still behind him, fingers otherwise occupied, he overbalances and tips, catches himself on the Bull’s chest with the hand holding the bottle and an _oof!_. They’re lucky he didn’t spill it everywhere, and when he looks up from his new vantage point to find the Bull staring, mouth a surprised _O_ , he can’t help but laugh, overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of it all, by the Bull and himself and the last year and an half. By how much he missed him and how happy he is to see his dear face.

The Bull watches him for a moment, then surprise bleeds into amusement, amusement into fondness, fondness into—

“Wasn’t quite what I intended,” he says. “But it gets the job done.” He shifts, and Dorian is distracted by the feel of the Bull’s cock—full and hard—against his own. The Bull, too, seems distracted judging by the way his mouth goes a little slack.

Fingers sliding free, Dorian pushes himself up, slings his leg over the Bull’s hips. “And whatever gets the job done, yes?” he asks, pouring more oil on his fingers. He reaches first for the Bull’s cock, teasing the underside, the spot just below the head he remembers driving the Bull mad.

His memory is sharp. The Bull’s hands tighten on him, and he groans.

Dorian smirks before reaching behind himself once again, fingers newly slick, moving easily. A moment later, and the Bull’s hand is joining his, helping to work him open, and then the two of them are there and Dorian feels full, but even that is not enough. He needs more.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Bull, that’s—that’s enough, I—”

Humming, the Bull nods, slips his fingers free to take the bottle from Dorian. He tips it into his palm, slicking his cock as he places the bottle out of harm’s way (they know better now, from experience). He pauses on an upstroke, and Dorian blinks at him, fingers slowly thrusting into himself, the slow drag of skin on skin keeping his blood heated, his pulse quick.

“You sure you can handle this, kadan?”

Dorian nods. He is, he’s ready for this. “I’ve been thinking about handling it for a long time,” he says with a leer.

The Bull grins at him, wide and bright. “This is why I—” The grin doesn’t so much falter as become soft around the edges. “Well.”

Dorian’s pulse jumps, his heart racing. The word, that word is on the horizon. They can both feel it, have already seen it glinting in their future—theirs, _together_ —this evening. 

He is all right with this.

Fingers sliding from his ass, Dorian bites his lip and moves forward. His thighs strain and, oh, he missed that particular burn. Tomorrow, when they rise, he’ll feel the ache and remember the Bull between his thighs.

The Bull watches him, eyes roaming, one hand around his cock keeping it steady as Dorian rises above him before, carefully, lowering until he feels the head of it at his entrance. Pausing to breathe deep, Dorian grounds himself with a look at the Bull, whose eyes watch and hold him there, in the moment, and then—

“ _Fuck_ , Dorian.” His teeth catch on the expletive, drawing it out in a hiss of air and sound that makes goose pimples erupt on Dorian’s skin. Dorian grins, reveling at the feel of the head of Bull’s cock, and lowers himself further, taking him inch by inch until the Bull’s hand is gone and Dorian is seated against his hips.

The stretch is—The feel is—

 _Maker_.

“Bull,” he says, breathless, feeling alight. “ _Bull_.” How can he tell him how much he’s missed this? Missed him? How can he articulate the riot of feeling beneath his breast that make it hard to breathe, focus, think? How can he do any of that when the Bull fills places Dorian never knew were empty?

He doesn’t need to, of course, because the Bull knows. He’s always known. Before Dorian, even. And thank the Maker for that, or who knows what would’ve happened. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Bull,” he says again, and the Bull just shakes his head and reaches for him, big hand on the back of Dorian’s head, fingers slipping through his hair. Pulling Dorian forward, he lifts up, meets him halfway for a kiss that swallows Dorian’s groans at the subtle change in angle. It’s filthy, and it’s perfect, the Bull’s lips the advance party to his conquering tongue. Dorian opens to him—will always open to him—and welcomes him in with enthusiasm, challenges him to more.

Instead, Dorian feels a sharp pull at the back of his head, the Bull tugging at his hair. Something more potent than pain zings through him.

“Wha—” His head feels fuzzy and clear both, and he just wants—

“You were going to ride me,” the Bull says. “I want to watch you.”

With that, he lets Dorian go, leans back against the pillows to leave Dorian gaping at him, propped against his chest.

 _Oh_ , he thinks. _Oh, is that how you want to play it?_

Not breaking eye contact, Dorian licks his bottom lip, taking his time to savor the way the Bull follows the movement before he pushes himself up, back into a kneeling position. Once he’s there, he’s careful not to move his hips—much as he wants to. He reaches, instead, for his own cock. Hissing lightly as he tugs at the ring there, nipples hardening at the sensation.

The Bull’s eye is dark, his expression hungry but otherwise unreadable.

With a smirk, Dorian wraps his hand around his shaft, stroking slowly, deliberately as the Bull watches before finally shifting his hips.

It’s gratifying, the way the Bull’s breath catches.

“Is this what you wanted?” Dorian asks, concentrating on each word when all he wants is to close his eyes and focus on the exquisite push and pull of the Bull’s cock as he fucks himself on it. “Is it?”

The Bull’s hands find his hips, not gripping or holding, simply touching. “You started this.”

Dorian knows he means here and now, this morning, but there’s a part of him that wonders if it’s even truer, if it wasn’t him all along who started this inevitable fall when he chose to seek out the Inquisition. Because it feels inevitable, this thing with him and Bull. Like they were going to end up here someway, somehow, and those timelines where they don’t are merely aberrations, blips in time where connections were missed and opportunities lost.

He nods, feeling full, feeling everything. “So I did,” he says, one slow roll of his hips that makes the Bull’s eyelid flutter. “So I did.” And then his hips are moving and nothing else matters but the points where they connect.

It’s good, it’s incredible, and Dorian can’t help the sounds that start from deep within him as he rises and falls with the movement of the Bull’s hips, as he rolls and circles and—

The Bull thumbs at a nipple, tugging at a ring, and Dorian groans, hips stuttering. That hand rises and rises, and it’s in Dorian’s hair again, at the back of his head, but instead of it pulling him forward, it pulls him back until his body is a taut line of muscle, throat and piercings and cock on display as he grinds down, pain and pleasure and the Bull combining until it’s too much and Dorian comes, hard, with a shout.

Beneath him, he feels the Bull’s hips hitch, feels his hand tighten at his side, and the Bull is coming and Dorian can feel it and this, this is all he has ever wanted.

After, pillowed on the Bull’s chest, Dorian catches his breath. He’ll have to move soon or risk horrible cramps and unpleasant stickiness, but for now…

The Bull’s chest rises and falls beneath his cheek, and his fingers stroke and play in Dorian’s hair. It’s soothing, and he doesn’t want to move, wants to stay only here in the dim light in their room in their bed. His heart beats, steady, in his chest. Beneath his ear, Bull’s is strong, just as steady.

“I love you,” Dorian says, voice hushed. Surprised by how easily the words slip out. In his hair, he thinks the Bull’s fingers hesitate, but it’s only for a moment, and it may have been imagined.

“I love you,” the Bull says, and it’s soft and it’s real, and Dorian is laughing, strangely relieved, and the Bull is laughing, too, and when Dorian pushes up to kiss him with a “well now we’ve got that settled,” the Bull meets him halfway.


End file.
